Page 31 of The Masks We Break

“This isthe third flipping email tonight,” I mutter, irritation swirling with the alcohol in my bloodstream.

Dr. Humphrey has sent consecutive messages regarding papers that can wait until tomorrow. Or—I check the digital clock behind the bar seeing it’s already well into tomorrow—later today after I’ve slept.

Crap.

I hadn’t realized how late it was, intentionally avoiding the time and my phone, enjoying this amazing night thus far. First, it was the incredible tacos at a food truck and the Froyo next door where Amora blushed in her phone, a genuine giddiness taking over her features. Then when we got to the club, and I saw the line, my heart sunk a couple of inches, not sure how comfortable I felt waiting in it dressed as sexy Betty Rubble. But Amora walked us straight to the front, slipping inside without so much as a word.

Ever since the first dance, I’ve glued myself to her side, only escaping occasionally for a little more liquid courage.

Now during one of my breaks, I’ve made the mistake of checking my phone. I clench my hand around the screen as I scroll down the message quickly, annoyance prickling along my spine. Not only has he taken me out of my little bubble, but he’s also reminded me that I’m now in the day I dread every year.

Without missing a beat, the storm looming in the shadows moves overhead. It darkens the partygoers around me, slowing everything down in tandem. A shiver works its way through my core, and I wrap my arms over my stomach.

Then everything happens too fast for me to catch it.

The music isn’t upbeat anymore but instead grows louder, more violent. It’s as if the melody rages over my body like a wave in the middle of the sea and even my fast gasps of air aren’t enough to fill my lungs.

It’s your fault she isn’t here. She did everything right.

No. Not here. I squeeze my eyes shut, banishing my father’s words back into the dark parts, but instead, they latch on, and his screams echo in my head.

She had so much potential. My wife would be saving lives, but instead, she sacrificed it for you! You will never be able to replace her.

The memory burns at the corners of my eyes, threatening to take over everything before leaving, ripping me apart. And that’s exactly what feels like is happening. The shame injected in my heart at birth pumps through my bloodstream, stiffening the muscles in my chest and making all others too weak to function properly. My knees nearly buckle, and I grasp onto the bar for support.

Get control, Remy. Calm down.

Taking a stuttered breath, I try to think of something,anythingthat can bring me back from the brink.

You are responsible for your own happiness.

I latch on to the words like a life raft, reaching out for the steady voice promising to help me stay afloat.I am responsible—no one else.

“Remy?”

A cold hand grips onto my bare arm, jolting my eyes open with a gasp.

First, the blue eyes come into focus. They’re round and small under furrowed brows. “Come on, honey, I think you’re having a panic attack.”

Her voice threads through the smoke, clearing my vision a little more.

“We have to go, babe. Come on.” She tugs on my arm, her other hand finding the spot between my shoulder blades and pushing lightly.

I shake my head, but I can’t find my voice, my throat stuck around a lump.

“Girl, fuck that headshake. We’re leaving.”

This time I nod, letting her take control and hold on as she leads us outside toward the parking garage. The cool breeze snakes up my dress, forcing shivers to work through my body, but it helps clear my head completely now. Focusing on the streetlights illuminating the wet pavement under our feet, I suck in the air greedily, finally feeling the soft skin of Amora’s fingers and the bite of her fresh manicure in my arm. The realization of what happened barrels into my chest.

I had a panic attack in the middle of the club.

My stomach hardens, embarrassment flushing over my face and neck, displaying my dread for all to see. But Amora doesn’t seem to notice, and if she does, she doesn’t mention it.

We reach her silver Tesla, and she opens my door. I flop inside, unsuccessfully pulling my dress down my clammy thighs.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Her voice is barely above a whisper, and I let myself turn toward her but keep my gaze trained on the keys clutched in her hand.

If I were to even try to explain, especially today, I can’t begin to think of the dark hole I’d have to climb out of after. “I do. But not now.”

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